I remember messaging my friend Gerard with a plan to head out after work. I remember closing my laptop and getting changed in a toilet cubicle. I remember attaching a spotlight to my helmet, and another smaller light to my handlebars. I remember zipping up my wet weather gear. I remember reading the weather forecast – wet, gale-force, a mid-winter shit-storm as only Wellington can put on. I remember messaging my partner and thinking at the same time that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, there would be other days, and that maybe I should just go home, watch TV, eat something warm, and drink something cold. I remember reading the return message, “Just be careful.” And then I don’t remember anything. Just a black hole where normally the rest of the evening would be.
It was 2016, two months before my first child was due to be born. I was in some kind of early-onset, mid-life, change-of life, not-quite-ready-for-parenting-yet, self-denial sprint-to-nowhere. A lot of things were about to change, but also nothing was changing very quickly. I went to the pub, rode my mountain bike, signed up for races, jogged, worked late, booked holidays, bought new shoes. It felt normal, like my regular pre-child life, but even then, I knew I was trying to cram the fading light of my youth into a few short months before the baby was born. It was futile, but that made me even more desperate to cram more and more in.
This story is from the October 14-20, 2023 edition of New Zealand Listener.
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This story is from the October 14-20, 2023 edition of New Zealand Listener.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
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